


Angel of Darkness

by saberwitch



Category: Tomb Raider (Video Games), Vampirella (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 03:05:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18490039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberwitch/pseuds/saberwitch
Summary: A spinoff of my Four Non-Blondes fic; the story of when Lara and Ella met. And yes, I named it after the worst game in the TR franchise.





	Angel of Darkness

I had chosen this particular mountain in the Huayhuash range for a reason: it was one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. The closest locals were hundreds of miles away, but they had a name for it. They called it Amaya, which means Death. 

Never let it be said that I do not have a flair for the dramatic. 

Nevertheless, one might imagine my state of mind when I saw the small group of figures scaling the sheer face beneath my lair. 

One was dressed as a Westerner, the other two in traditional Quechua garb. There must have been a substantial sum involved to get local guides up that far. 

I watched from my aerie as the small party made it to the shelf just below. The leader, who appeared to be a woman, stood in front of the massive stone doors leading into my sanctum. 

I could have killed them right then and there, but one of my undying failings is curiosity. I wanted to see how long they would survive. I wanted to see how far this woman was willing to go. 

One gets bored easily when one has all eternity to pass the time. 

The doors were the first barricade. I had designed them myself, with no obvious manner of ingress. A complex series of triggers needed to be activated to get them open. It would require nearly supernatural speed and strength to hit them all in time. A feat for anyone, much less someone who had just climbed an unforgiving escarpment. 

The woman pulled back her hood. I caught a glimpse of dark auburn hair, pulled back into a ponytail. I suspected she was European; most of the Quechua who lived in the area despised Americans, and would not have brought one into their mountains even for a year's pay. 

The two guides were sorting the supplies as the woman surveyed the doors. She turned to examine the ledges and shelves atop the escarpment, and the stone-paved apron before the doors. 

She turned to speak to the guides. I have excellent hearing, far superior to humans, so I was able to catch part of the conversation, though the howling ever-present wind made it difficult.

To my surprise she spoke the Quechua language fluidly, though her manner of speech was stiffly formal. And she had an English accent, which explained much. The guides were insisting upon staying; the Englishwoman was assuring them that she would be fine by herself. 

That was foolish. Traveling solo in the Andes, even within the safe tourist areas, was never a good idea. But I confess I found her self assurance intriguing. Curious to see how things would play out, I decided to indirectly assist. Cupping my hands to my mouth, I let out an unearthly howl.

The guides hurriedly grabbed their packs and began clambering down the escarpment before the echoes had even died away. I allowed myself a small smile. 

The Englishwoman did not seem the least perturbed, and my curiosity grew stronger. As I regarded her, she sat on an outcropping and pulled a book from one of the remaining packs. She opened it midway, studying it intently, and then began to make some notes. Every so often she would glance up and around, and then return to the journal. Satisfied, she placed it back in her pack and stood. 

And then she exploded into action. 

I do not use that term lightly. At one moment she was still and pensive, and in an eyeblink she was sprinting for a ledge, keeping her knees up to avoid dragging her feet in the snow. She leaped for the ledge with the grace of a diver, and caught it. Part of the ledge broke off in her hand and she slipped, dangling from her fingers. 

I found that I was holding my breath. 

She swung up and hooked a leg over the edge of the rock, then pulled herself up into a roll. Immediately she sprang to her feet and sprinted for the next ledge. There-- she had found one of the keystones. Regarding it for a moment, she then put her shoulder to it and pushed. The grating of stone on stone sounded.

She watched the door, hands on hips. Once she was certain that it was not opening, she used her vantage point to survey the area again. She spotted the next keystone almost immediately, and leaped. 

Pressing it in, she discovered that the other keystone then reset to its original position. I could not help but smile. It had been ages since someone had tested my lock, and I was surprised to find that I was hoping she would succeed. 

I watched her for a while longer. Eventually she discovered all six of the keystones, jumping back down every so often to her supplies to make more notes in her journal. By that point she must have been exhausted, and indeed it seemed as though she'd given up after discovering the final stone, because she put away her journal and began setting up her small camp. 

She was efficient, and obviously an experienced mountain climber. And it seemed, if her cheerful humming was any indication, that she was rather enjoying herself. 

I felt a strange sense of pride. 

As night fell, I drifted further downward. Once my keen hearing detected the sonorous breathing of deep sleep, I trespassed into her camp. 

Examining the journal first, I noted that it was old, and the writing done in several hands. Hers was easy to recognize: it was crisp and elegant and very to the point. And I discovered what I assumed to be her name: Lara Croft. 

Replacing it where I found it, I then passed into her small tent and gazed down at her.

I have always felt that humans are possessed of a singular beauty. There is so much variation, even among peoples of a nation, a tribe, a bloodline. No two are alike, even those born as identical twins. It is a marvel, and one of the reasons I no longer view this planet as the prison it was meant to be. 

The woman was, in many respects, plain. Mouth just a little too wide, nose just a little too long, eyes just a little too large. And yet I stood there rapt and gazed upon her, memorizing each feature. 

Her eyes, when they flew open, were the rich brown of dark coffee. The pistol she had aimed at me, however, was an ugly thing. 

"Who are you?" she demanded in her cultured English accent. 

"A dream," I whispered. I let the compulsion coil out from me, caress her, lace its way into her thoughts with tendrils of my will. 

"Sleep," I told her. The pistol drooped, and her eyes grew heavy. I turned to leave, but a mad whim stole over me, and I returned to her bedside. 

"Just a dream," I repeated. "But do not forget me when you wake, Lara Croft. I will be watching."

I waited until I heard a gentle snore. Satisfied, I withdrew and made my way back to my aerie, excited to see what the morrow would bring. And excitement, even of the most banal nature, is a drug more powerful to one like me than any lust for blood or flesh. 

I would be watching.


End file.
